


On the Horns of a Dilemma

by fElBiTeR



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Caretaking, Difficult Decisions, Heavy Angst, M/M, Pining, Psychological Torture, Spoilers, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26194702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fElBiTeR/pseuds/fElBiTeR
Summary: Alex has been kidnapped and threatened by maniacs on plenty of occasions, and he’s escaped each and every one of them successfully without too much damage.Something tells him that things are going to be a little bit different, this time around...
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich/Alex Rider
Comments: 10
Kudos: 65





	On the Horns of a Dilemma

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is based on the premise that after scorpia rising, alex somehow finds yassen's personal diary and has read it multiple times for comfort (the same way some of us have read russian roulette multiple times) and basically falls in love with the traces of yassen in those diary entries
> 
> note: spoilers for up to the first 10 books, but personally I've only read up to eagle strike :P

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's me again, back with another disastrous attempt at a multi-chapter fic with nothing pre-written!! I hope you enjoy!<3

When Alex wakes up, he wakes up slowly and not all at once in a space too silent to be a hospital or his bedroom. His eyes crack wide open to a blurry speckled white ceiling, stretching high above the height of a normal one, too tall to reach even with the assistance of a table or a chair.

The first thing he notices when he quickly glances around is that his arms, legs, and neck are tightly strapped down to his sides. When he jerks against his restraints, they don’t give him any room to work with or any opportunities for him to unstrap himself. He’s laying on some type of makeshift medical gurney, maybe? The second thing he notices is that he isn’t alone. He can’t see behind him, unable to move his head, but an instinct trained into Alex by Ian and honed through over a year of spying for MI6 alerts him to the looming presence behind him, something like a sort of sixth sense but in reality just his ability to feel a shift in the density of air, hear the softest sounds of breathing, and determine the weight of another person’s shadow falling onto his forehead, all with a sense of foreboding. 

Worst of all, Alex doesn’t remember how he got here. The last thing he remembers is finally leaving the safety of his Chelsea home, watched by MI6 agents and hidden cameras, for the first time in ages after locking himself in with Yassen’s digital diary. The inside of his house had no bugs or cameras. Alex made sure of it before he cracked the journal entries open with a newfound curiosity that he hadn’t felt for ages, not since before Julius and Jack, before learning what he is still sure is some distorted version of the truth of everything from Ash, before the pain of Malagosto and Julia Rothman’s pitiful scheme for revenge, before this entire affair that had started the moment Ian Rider died and left Alex in the hands of MI6. 

“Ah, you’re not supposed to be awake yet. But I supposed you wouldn't be Alex Rider if you aligned with all my expectations.” The voice is low and deceptively soothing, and it sounds like whoever it is isn’t concerned with Alex potentially escaping. It sounds like whoever it is _knows_ Alex in the way that MI6 and Scorpia know Alex. Alex doesn’t think this is MI6. He also knows that Scorpia should still be busy scrambling to fill the power vacuum Alex created, practically finished for good, too destroyed to come after him like this.

The man takes the time to walk around the makeshift gurney until he appears in Alex’s line of sight, waving at him in a mock greeting. He looks completely normal, early forties, handsome, no scars, no visible distortions, no creepy bloodshot eyes, no sign of any twisted mania in his expression. He looks like a man Alex would walk past without a second glance on the street, except to very quickly note his slightly above-average looks.

… Maybe that’s what happened.

“What do you want from me?” Alex asks, but it comes out raspy and crackly and too small, like a weak plea. His mouth is dry from sleep. He wonders how long he’s been unconscious for.

“Straight to the point, are we? Very well,” the man muses. “My name is Jackson Kettlewell, but you can call me Jack. No need to introduce yourself, Alex Rider. I already know everything there needs to be known about you.”

Something inside Alex withers up and dies. The way the man speaks, his quiet confidence, the unhurried cadence and tone in his voice as he shared his name, the slightest bit of excitement… it sounds like he’s been planning this very thoroughly for a long, long time. And another thing. The fact that the man is willing to share his face and what seems to be his real name so easily…

It sounds like he doesn’t plan on allowing Alex to leave, ever.

Alex begins to wriggle against his restraints, filled with a sudden panic in his chest at the seriousness of the situation. The man tsks at him. 

“None of that, Alex. You see, I don’t really want to hurt you.” He leans forwards and lightly traces the straps at Alex’s neck. Alex writhes even harder. “Leather. I could have chained you up, but that would dig into your skin and leave such awful marks. No. We couldn't damage your body even further, could we?”

For the first time since Alex has woken up, he realizes that he’s not wearing what he left the house with. His shirt, trousers, and…

The man seems to follow Alex’s line of thought as well as his eyes scanning down at his new change of clothes. The man’s fingers leave his neck to instead curl into the waistband of Alex’s new trousers, tugging them outwards to reveal a peek of red boxers that Alex definitely does _not_ own.

“Yes, that as well,” the man laughs.

Alex’s cheeks flush angrily at the violation. “Stop touching me!” 

“I haven’t even done anything yet,” the man says, amusement lingering in his tone. 

“Fuck you,” Alex says automatically. He’s long past the point of restraining himself.

“Such fight,” the man cooes, clearly satisfied with what he’s seeing. He tugs the waistband of Alex’s trousers even further until it reaches the limits of its elasticity, close to breaking. For the briefest of moments, Alex actually braces himself in horror for the cold invasion of a hand. Instead, the man lets go and Alex’s waistband springs back into place with a resounding _snap_ , volumes too loud, echoing in the silence of the tall room.

Alex can’t even hide the exhale of relief that spills from his lungs. He’s been tortured before, but something about this man, something about the way he carries himself so disarmingly makes Alex feel squeamish on the inside, crawling with unease. And… Alex has never been touched by more than his own hands. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to endure that type of torture. He only hopes that he can distract the man long enough for MI6 to rescue him or more realistically, wait for some sort of slip up that Alex can use to his advantage.

“What do you want from me?” Alex demands again, this time much angrier. His mouth is still dry. His tongue nearly sticks to the roof of his mouth.

“Why don’t we focus more on what you want, Alex?” the man says, blatantly circumventing Alex’s question for the second time.

“I want to get out of these restraints and bash you on the head,” Alex says.

The man smiles kindly. “And what will you do once you leave this place? You have no clue where you are. We could be in the middle of New Caledonia, for all you know. Will you swim all the way back to England? Return to MI6’s beck and call?”

Alex schools his face into a blank mask to hide the sudden shock to his system.

“That’s right. I know that you’re their lapdog. A rather reluctant one, might I add, starting from the ripe age of fourteen. Bloody vicious, aren't they? You leave here and then what? Continue working for them until you meet your unfortunate end, dying before you even reach adulthood? You’ve got no friends, no family, only a cold, empty house to return to. I know waking up tied down isn’t the best thing ever, but as I said: you woke up too early. You were meant to wake up in a cozy bed and in a room I’ve spent a long time preparing for you. Bad first impressions, I know, so I’m actually awfully sorry about that, but I’m not here to hurt you. Quite the opposite, in fact. You’re going to feel very comfortable staying with me, more than if you were staying in that dingy home alone,” the man explains, the gleam in his eye growing brighter the more and more he speaks.

“You’re insane,” Alex says. His mouth feels awful.

The man shrugs. “You’ll get used to it. You’ll learn, Alex, that it’s better to just give in. It really isn’t all that bad. If you just ask for something, there’s a very high chance that I’ll actually agree to procure it for you. All you have to do is ask.”

“Would it be too much to ask for you to untie me and then jump off a roof?” Alex asks. 

“That’s not really what you want, now is it?”

“Yes, it is,” Alex says blandly. It’s a bit of a struggle to speak.

“Aren’t you parched? Wouldn’t you like a nice tall glass of cool water?” the man tilts his head inquisitively, ignoring Alex’s remark. “Go ahead and ask, ‘Jack, may I have a glass of water?’ Repeat after me.” He’s talking to Alex as if he were in _primary school_. It’s unnerving.

Alex shakes his head in refusal, but it doesn’t work. His neck is restrained tightly. His mouth is withered. He has a feeling that he’s been unconscious for much longer than he initially thought.

“Go on, it’s very simple,” the man encourages.

There is really nothing else that Alex can do. “May I please have a glass of water?”

“Oh, I really liked that ‘please’ you added in, very nice touch. But I think you’ve forgotten something, a small bit right at the beginning there…”

Alex doesn’t want to say his name. Doesn’t want to humanize him in Alex’s head with _Jack’s_ name, of all things. Her death still continues to burn brightly at the forefront of his mind. Jack is one of Alex’s best friends. Jack is the housekeeper that did her best to care for Alex when Ian wasn’t around. Jack is the one who stayed for Alex when she could have left for the United States and dropped the mess that is Alex Rider, but instead she stayed. She stayed and was killed for it. Jack is a precious part of Alex’s memories, memories that he feels like he needs to curl his body around to prevent them from being snuffed out by the elements.

Jack is _not_ the mad-man standing in front of Alex and eyeing him in such a strange, strange way, almost like how a child would eye an unattended bag of sweets, open and attracting flies.

Alex swallows. He barely has enough saliva in his mouth for even that.

Just this once. Just this once.

“Jack, may I please have a glass of water?” Alex grits out. He clenches his fists because he can’t do anything else.

“There you go! Now that wasn’t so hard, was it? I’ll tell you, it’ll be like that for everything. Just ask and ye shall receive!” The man is entirely too chipper about Alex asking for a glass of water. He reaches over off to the side, somewhere outside of Alex’s line of sight.

Alex thinks he hears a soft _plink_ of something dropping into liquid.

A clear glass of water reappears in the man’s hands. “There we are, Alex. Just open your mouth and don’t move.”

“That’s drugged,” Alex says. “I’m not drinking that.”

“Well, of course it’s drugged!” The man sounds almost offended that Alex would think otherwise. “How else am I supposed to knock you unconscious again? Unless you would rather lie here for hours until you naturally fall asleep again, that is…”

Alex hates him more and more with each passing second. Can he really try to fight the exhaustion that’s been tickling at the back of his mind ever since he’s woken up? Can he fight it long enough for MI6 to find him? Will Alex be too tired to escape, even if he got the chance? And most of all, will it make his captor angry? So far, the other man has shown Alex nothing but an amicable mood, even sitting through Alex’s usual sarcasm. That’s even more terrifying, someone who doesn’t crack under plebeian insults. 

How close to dehydration is Alex? He’s only been awake for twenty minutes, at most, and he already wants to down several quarts of water to soothe the dryness of his mouth and the building ache of thirst. Could he go on for hours like this?

Alex knows his limits. He knows when he’s been defeated. 

He opens his mouth slightly and averts his eyes.

“There we go, there we go. Smart choice, Alex. Then again, you are a very smart boy, aren’t you?” the man says, his hand disappearing off to the side again. “This is just the first choice you’ll make staying with me. I’ll always give you more than one.”

A straw. The glass of water is brought to just slightly lower than Alex's chin, and the straw is carefully placed into his mouth. The first drops of water that hits Alex’s tongue is cold bliss. So are the next couple of sips. After Alex has drained over half the glass, nearly three-quarters of it, a wave of an expected grogginess washes over him, accompanied by heavy eyelids and a violent sudden sleepiness.

“Sweet dreams,” the man says, already beginning to unclasp the restraints on Alex’s ankles. Alex kicks hard, one last ‘fuck you’ to the man, but there’s no strength behind it. 

Half a beat later, Alex falls unconscious.

***

Alex stares at the well-furnished room he’s in from the king-sized bed he wakes up on. It looks like that man was telling the truth. The sheets on the bed are silky and smooth, probably expensive and high quality, and one glance at other pieces of scattered furniture, like the shiny custom made nightstand beside the bed or the bright blue sofa up against the wall near the middle, tells Alex that a lot of money has probably been invested into the setup. An odd cloying sweetness in the air irritates Alex’s nose. It smells like a too-strong perfume or something akin to a pot of burnt, overcooked caramel.

He throws the covers off himself and scrutinizes what he’s wearing. The man undressed Alex all the way and changed his clothes. 

Alex fights back a disgusted shudder. 

He swings his legs off the bed, greeted by an unsurprisingly soft, grey carpet beneath his toes. He scans the room. It’s the size of a slightly larger than average master bedroom with a door which Alex presumes leads to a bathroom with a shower and toilet included. There’s an innocuous-looking bookshelf in the corner, several cushioned chairs with extra pillows and blankets neatly folded on top of each of them, another table, one more suited for eating or working than the one beside the bed, several drawers with handpicked clothing all perfectly fitted to Alex’s size, but no shoes. There is a strange looking see-through nook built into the wall that looks like a possible dumbwaiter. The entrance is small but just large enough for Alex to crawl through, he thinks, filing the information away for later. It’s all very cozy, but Alex isn’t going to stay long enough to enjoy any of it. The thing that holds Alex’s attention the most is a vent tucked away into the wall the corner opposite of the bookshelf. It’s a tad bit smaller than the dumbwaiter cavity, but Alex thinks it’s a better venture and much safer for him to crawl through.

So that’s what he does.

Alex grabs the nightstand by his bed, measuring to about the height of his chest, and drags it over to the empty space beneath the vent. Then he piles the tallest chair in the room on top of the table, carefully aligning the legs with the corners. He’s glad that the furniture hasn’t been nailed down. Alex wastes no time climbing up the nightstand and onto the chair, arms out at his sides to keep balance and to catch himself if his makeshift structure collapses. The furniture wobbles beneath him, but it’s more than steady enough to support Alex’s weight. He presses his fingers against the metal vent. It doesn’t seem to be screwed on too tightly…

Alex inhales and then slams the point of his elbow against the vent. It collapses inwards with a loud clatter. 

Alex winces. Very loud. Too loud. 

He grabs onto the ledge with his hands and hoists himself upwards before tucking himself into the space headfirst, his elbows pressed close to his sides. The vent looks to be clear of any debris, stretching along a straight narrow path into darkness. Alex scoots forwards, bringing the rest of his lower body into the vent. 

It’s all or nothing. It doesn’t matter if he has no one to return to. It doesn’t matter if MI6 wants to use him again. Alex doesn’t care. He just wants to go home and curl up with Yassen’s journal entries and a warm cup of tea.

 _Goodbye room_ , Alex thinks, not sorry to leave it at all.

Alex crawls, several centimeters at a time, the bright light of the curated bedroom fading into darkness behind him with each passing minute. He crawls for what feels like an eternity in the blackness, claustrophobia and the tight squeeze of the vent closing in around his lungs as he presses forwards. When he begins to wonder if he should just turn around and give up, he hears a faint sound that can only be categorized as a soft beeping noise, like a hospital machine or mechanical sounds belonging to technology that Alex might be able to use to send out a distress signal. That’s a good enough motivation for him to keep going. 

Suddenly his forehead smacks into something cold and solid. When Alex feels the texture of the impediment in front of him, something in his chest flutters in relief. The indentations feel identical to the grooves in the metal vent he broke through on the other end, and if this one is anything like the first one…

Alex curls slightly to the side and throws his entire weight into his right forearm. The vent loosens and a sudden flood of iridescent lights momentarily blind him. He blinks rapidly to allow his eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness, and he very quickly realizes that he’s actually very close to some glossy tiled flooring, level with the ground. Alex immediately notes that everything smells faintly of a strong disinfectant. He plucks a freed corner of the vent and rips the rest of it off, impatiently scrambling out of the enclosed space and back into a much larger area where he spends half a second stretching his limbs, feeling the coldness of the hard floor seep into the bottom of his bare feet before he suddenly stops all movement and stares blankly ahead at what’s in front of him.

Everything in this new room is nearly identical to the size and build of Alex’s, however, visually, it is much less furnished and a lot more clinical. What’s also different is that there are several items that belong in a hospital by the bedside, things like an IV stand with a bag of some sort of fluid hanging off the top, as well as a hospital monitor for telling heart rate, blood pressure, body temperature and a various smattering of other things. 

Well, that explains the soft beeps.

But they aren’t the reason as to why Alex is utterly speechless and frozen where he stands, eyes wide like a deer in headlights, his breath coming in quickened pants, his mouth dropped agape with disbelief. 

He doesn’t need a hospital monitor to tell him that his heart is absolutely racing a mile a minute, pounding louder than the sounds of the machine, threatening to jump right out of his chest and onto the smooth flooring.

In place of a normal bed is a hospital bed, slightly inclined, and on that hospital bed is the unconscious body of Yassen Gregorovich.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...


End file.
